Careful, a little smurf whispered--
fix the cracks so the rain doesn't get in.

It was stormy out--that's true,
but it leaves one there to wonder whether she meant the rain that lashed the sides of that tiny hut as it hugged the edge of the sea-swept cliff--
or if, in fact, she spoke with intended eloquence of a more proverbial type of rain.

Either way, it began a journey into unexplored territory--
that of the vicious and tragic night that was to follow,
and an internal exploration of sorts that revealed far more than I think either of us, to this day, would care to admit.

In binding the sides of that hut closed to brave the elements,
we unintentionally bound pieces of ourselves--
figment upon figment, creating a connection of sorts that doesn't warrant much explanation--
but exists nonetheless.
Later we lay in a heap under moth eaten blankets and listened to the cacophonous symphony that played above our heads--
careful not to let go, completely.

And when the sun rose some hours later,
and the clouds parted above the white-capped waves
a tiny dart of sunlight nibbled its way through the window and rested on the mass-like lump that was us.

While the morning held its breath,
I listened carefully for her delicate wisdom,
but she'd gone like the storm--
leaving behind the walls we'd bound so tightly against the rain.